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    Women Beware Women
    Women Beware Women
    Women Beware Women
    Ebook133 pages1 hour

    Women Beware Women

    By Thomas Middleton

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    Thomas Middleton (1580-1627), a bricklayer's son, rose to become one of the most eminent playwrights of the Jacobean period. Along with Ben Johnson he helped shape the dynamic course of drama in Renaissance England. His range is broad, as his work successfully covers comedy, tragedy, and history. Praised during his life as well as today, Middleton remains relevant and influential. Set in opulent 17th century Italy, "Women Beware Women" (1657) is a dark tragedy in line with the trends of Jacobean drama. It is a tale of violence, malice, and love. The drama that unfolds in this Italian court creates a whirlwind of jealousy—leading to numerous plots of revenge and ultimate tragedy. Along with "The Changeling" (1653), "Women Beware Women" helps to form the apex of Middleton's later career.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateFeb 1, 2012
    ISBN9781420945836

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      Book preview

      Women Beware Women - Thomas Middleton

      WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN

      BY THOMAS MIDDLETON

      A Digireads.com Book

      Digireads.com Publishing

      Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4544-7

      Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-4583-6

      This edition copyright © 2012

      Please visit www.digireads.com

      CONTENTS

      [COMMENDATORY VERSES]

      THE CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

      ACT I, Scene ii.

      ACT I. Scene iii.

      ACT II. Scene i.

      ACT II. Scene ii.

      ACT III. Scene i.

      ACT III. Scene ii.

      ACT III. Scene iii.

      ACT IV. Scene i.

      ACT IV. Scene ii.

      ACT IV. Scene iii.

      ACT V. Scene i.

      ACT V. Scene ii.

      [COMMENDATORY VERSES]

      Upon The Tragedy of My Familiar Acquaintance, Tho[mas] Middleton.

      Women Beware Women; 'tis a true text

      Never to be forgot. Drabs of state vexed,

      Have plots, poisons, mischiefs that seldom miss,

      To murder virtue with a venom kiss.

      Witness this worthy tragedy, expressed

      By him that well deserved among the best

      Of poets in his time: he knew the rage,

      Madness of women crossed; and for the stage

      Fitted their humors, hell-bred malice, strife

      Acted in state, presented to the life.

      I that have seen't, can say, having just cause,

      Never came tragedy off with more applause.

      Nath[aniel] Richards.

      THE CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

      DUKE of Florence.

      LORD CARDINAL, Brother to the Duke.

      Two CARDINALS more.

      A LORD.

      FABRITIO, Father to Isabella.

      HIPPOLITO, Brother to Fabritio.

      GUARDIANO, Uncle to the Foolish Ward.

      The WARD, a rich young Heir.

      LEANTIO, a Factor, Husband to Bianca.

      SORDIDO, the Wards Man.

      LIVIA, Sister to Fabritio.

      ISABELLA, Niece to Livia.

      BIANCA, Leantio's Wife.

      Widow, his MOTHER.

      STATES of Florence.

      CITIZENS.

      A PRENTICE.

      BOYS.

      MESSENGER.

      SERVANTS.

      ACT I, Scene i.

      [Enter Leantio with Bianca, and Mother.]

      MOTHER. Thy sight was never yet more precious to me;

      Welcome with all the affection of a mother,

      That comfort can express from natural love:

      Since thy birth-joy, a mother's chiefest gladness.

      After sh'as undergone her curse of sorrows,

      Thou wast not more dear to me, then this hour

      Presents thee to my heart. Welcome again.

      LEANTIO. [Aside] 'Las poor affectionate soul, how her joys speak to me!

      I have observed it often, and I know it is

      The fortune commonly of knavish children

      To have the lovingst mothers.

      MOTHER. What's this gentlewoman?

      LEANTIO. Oh you have named the most unvalued'st purchase,

      That youth of man had ever knowledge of.

      As often as I look upon that treasure,

      And know it to be mine, (there lies the blessing)

      It joys me that I ever was ordained

      To have a being, and to live 'mongst men;

      Which is a fearful living, and a poor one;

      Let a man truly think on't.

      To have the toil and griefs of fourscore years

      Put up in a white sheet, tied with two knots—

      Methinks it should strike earthquakes in adulterers,

      When e'en the very sheets they commit sin in,

      May prove, for ought they know, all their last garments.

      Oh what a mark were there for women then!

      But beauty able to content a conquerer,

      Whom earth could scarce content, keeps me in compass;

      I find no wish in me bent sinfully

      To this man's sister, or to that man's wife:

      In love's name let 'em keep their honesties,

      And cleave to their own husbands, 'tis their duties.

      Now when I go to church, I can pray handsomely;

      Not come like gallants only to see faces,

      As if lust went to market still on Sundays.

      I must confess I am guilty of one sin, Mother,

      More then I brought into the world with me;

      But that I glory in: 'tis theft, but noble,

      As ever greatness yet shot up withal.

      MOTHER. How's that?

      LEANTIO. Never to be repented, Mother,

      Though sin be death; I had died, if I had not sinned,

      And here's my masterpiece: do you now behold her!

      Look on her well, she's mine, look on her better.

      Now say, if't be not the best piece of theft

      That ever was committed; and I have my pardon for't:

      'Tis sealed from heaven by marriage.

      MOTHER. Married to her!

      LEANTIO. You must keep council Mother, I am undone else;

      If it be known, I have lost her; do but think now

      What that loss is, life's but a trifle to't.

      From Venice, her consent and I have brought her

      From parents great in wealth, more now in rage;

      But let storms spend their furies, now we have got

      A shelter o'er our quiet innocent loves,

      We are contented. Little money sh'as brought me.

      View but her face, you may see all her dowry,

      Save that which lies locked up in hidden virtues,

      Like jewels kept in cabinets.

      MOTHER. Y'are too blame,

      If your obedience will give way to a check,

      To wrong such a perfection.

      LEANTIO. How?

      MOTHER. Such a creature,

      To draw her from her fortune—which no doubt,

      At the full time, might have proved rich and noble—

      You know not what you have done. My life can give you

      But little helps, and my death lesser hopes.

      And hitherto your own means has but made shift

      To keep you single, and that hardly too.

      What ableness have you to do her right then

      In maintenance fitting her birth and virtues?

      Which ev'ry woman of necessity looks for,

      And most to go above it, not confined

      By their conditions, virtues, bloods, or births,

      But flowing to affections, wills, and humors.

      LEANTIO. Speak low, sweet Mother; you are able to spoil as many

      As come within the hearing; if it be not

      Your fortune to mar all, I have much marvel.

      I pray do not you teach her to rebel,

      When she's in a good way to obedience,

      To rise with other women in commotion

      Against their husbands, for six gowns a year,

      And so maintain their cause, when they're once up,

      In all things else that require cost enough.

      They are all of 'em a kind of spirits soon raised,

      But not so soon laid, Mother. As for example,

      A woman's belly is got up in a trice,

      A simple charge ere it be laid down again:

      So ever in all their quarrels, and their courses,

      And I'm a proud man, I hear nothing of 'em,

      They're very still, I thank my happiness,

      And sound asleep; pray let not your tongue wake 'em.

      If you can but rest quiet, she's contented

      With all conditions, that my fortunes bring her to;

      To keep close as a wife that loves her husband;

      To go after the rate of my ability,

      Not the licentious swindge of her own will,

      Like some of her old school-fellows, she intends

      To take out other works in a new sampler,

      And frame the fashion of an honest love,

      Which knows no wants; but mocking poverty

      Brings forth more children, to make rich men wonder

      At divine providence, that feeds mouths of infants,

      And sends them none to feed, but stuffs their rooms

      With fruitful bags, their beds with barren wombs.

      Good Mother, make not you things worse than they are,

      Out of your too much openness—pray take heed on't—

      Nor imitate the envy of old people,

      That strive to mar good sport, because they are perfect.

      I would have you more pitiful to youth,

      Especially to your own flesh and blood.

      I'll prove an excellent husband, here's my hand,

      Lay in provision, follow my business roundly,

      And make you a Grandmother in forty weeks.

      Go, pray salute her, bid her welcome cheerfully.

      MOTHER. Gentlewoman, thus much is a debt of courtesy [kisses her]

      Which fashionable strangers pay each other

      At a kind meeting; then there's more than one

      Due to the knowledge I have of your nearness.

      I am bold to come again, [kisses her] and now salute you

      By th'name of daughter, which may challenge more

      Then ordinary respect. [Kisses her again.]

      LEANTIO. Why this is well now,

      And I think few mothers of threescore will mend it.

      MOTHER. What I can bid you welcome to, is mean;

      But make it all your own; we are full of wants,

      And cannot welcome worth.

      LEANTIO. Now this is scurvy,

      And spake as if a woman lacked her teeth.

      These old folks talk of nothing but defects,

      Because they grow so full of 'em themselves.

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